


End of the Day

by Fyre



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-23
Updated: 2008-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-25 05:12:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1633313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He'd had to take Carcer in, even if he wanted to tear him apart. That had been the Right Thing to Do. Even if he could still hear the man's laughter when he was led up to the gallows. Vimes had stood there, watched him swing, and kept on standing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	End of the Day

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Beth W for making sure my Vimes wasn't attrocious. I would hate to have ruined my favourite Discworld character. He's lovely to write, though, even if he is angry.
> 
> Written for spastic_visions

 

 

The Watch House had been given another dart board.

It was never something they asked for, at least not after the fifth one. Vimes had a feeling Vetinari kept a supply of them up at the Palace, for special occasions such as this. 

Not the Glorious Anniversary, of course.

No one would acknowledge that as a special occasion.

A time for sitting quietly over an untouched beer was more like it. 

They'd gone out a few nights after, just him, and Nobby and Fred and Reg. The ones who were left. It was a night of half-sentences, most of them beginning with "do you remember..." and being completed with tired "yeah."

He hadn't stayed long.

It was all too fresh in his mind, and he was bloody tired. Even if he'd slept, it was hardly proper sleep. Now, he had something else to think about, to worry about, something small and pink and fragile, but his mind wouldn't stop going over things again and again.

He'd had to take Carcer in, even if he wanted to tear him apart. That had been the Right Thing to Do. Even if he could still hear the man's laughter when he was led up to the gallows. Vimes had stood there, watched him swing, and kept on standing.

Didn't trust the bastard to die, not like a normal human being.

He was dead, though, and Vimes had made sure they'd burned what was left, just to be on the safe side. He'd poured the ashes down the nearest privy pit, then returned to Sybil and little Sam and closed his eyes and pretended things were all right.

As soon as they were asleep, he slipped out into the night. 

It was almost like old times. Almost. Except now, he had a wife and a child and a Watch bigger than he was and a thousand and one thoughts that had nothing to do with where the next drink was coming from. Exactly like old times if old times were tipped on their arse and hit over the head with a rock. 

His feet were carrying him again. He knew he was heading for the Brass bridge and the river. Habit, that. Staring down at the sludge had a way of making a man rethink all the crap in his life. Usually because there was worse oozing by, five feet below.

Halfway across, he stopped and leaned against the central hippopotamus and the rail, ignoring the splinters jabbing his hands. The mist rising from the river was enough to discourage him from lighting a cigar. Going out in a fireball of stupidity wasn't a good end.

It used to be simple. Watch duty. Drink. Fall over somewhere and try not to be sick up your own nose. Good days.

No. Days. That's about all you could say for them.

Things had become complicated. He'd become responsible. And now, he still had that little part of him that wanted to tear something apart, hit something, do damage in a way that Commander Samuel Vimes, Duke of Ankh wasn't allowed to.

He hit the statue beside him. It didn't help. All he got for his effort was a bruised fist full of splinters.

Turning on his heel, he set out again.

He didn't particularly care where. His feet had control, while his mind was going a mile a minute. Vetinari had watched him take down Carcer, the bastard, and he'd questioned him on it. That didn't help. Vimes knew it was the right thing. It was the Law. Vengeance was for people who didn't have the Law to fall back on. But given a question, your mind'll run in circles, full of ifs, and buts, and maybe I should ofs. 

It was a good night for being lost in thought. 

Earlier, it had poured, but now, the city was drying out. There were puddles shining between the cobbles, and the air was warm and damp and the smell of the city wrapped around him. It never changed, he noticed. Thirty years ago, a week ago, it had been exactly the same.

Some things were the same.

He stood by the Law. Had done for years. Ever since John Keel had taken him to heel and showed him what a good copper could be. Maybe he had strayed off the path as the Watch had floundered, but now, he was where Keel had been back then. He knew he was, because he had been.

He rubbed his face. He needed a shave again.

Somewhere in between the labour, and capturing Carcer, and falling into bed at home, and the execution, and everything else, shaving had been put to one side. He needed that now. His feet apparently knew before he did, because when he looked up, he was walking towards his own front door.

Habitually, he swerved sideways and took the back entrance.

Even if it was his house, he was damned if he was going to stride into the front hall and demand his servants take his coat and attend to him. Bloody stupid system anyway. He had two hands and knew how a door worked. Handle, turn, open, enter. Not exactly difficult.

He made his way up the stairs silently, and through the bedroom to the bathroom. Sybil was snoring quietly, and he took care not to wake her. If anyone deserved the rest, it was her. He hadn't been allowed in while Lawn worked, but he had heard the scream. Just one, but coming from Sybil, it was enough to make his blood run cold.

He stared into the mirror.

The man who looked back at him seemed like a stranger.

Shaving by candlelight made the unfamiliarity even worse. One flicker of a flame, one flicker of the razor, and he swore quietly as he tried to stem the bleeding from his earlobe.

The soothing lull of shaving would have to wait until daylight, and he would have to find something else to distract himself.

Usually, there would be Sybil to gently nudge and talk to. He had missed her. Gods, he had missed her more than he realised, and he wanted her to know that, even if it came out as a squeeze of her hand and an awkward kiss on the cheek. He wouldn't be able to bring up the `l' word, but it was there and they both knew it, as constant as the steam over the Ankh in summer.

Now, though, he couldn't bear to wake her, not after everything she had done.

That left the household staff, and he knew how awkward it was for his Grace, the Duke of Ankh, that bastard, to have a laugh and a pint under the stairs. Old Sam could have done it, if he'd got as far as the back door, but not his Grace.

He paused in the doorway of the bathroom, holding the candlestick.

There was one more person he could talk to, someone who couldn't talk back yet, but who would listen, even if he didn't understand.

Vimes crept back out of the bedroom and made his way to the nursery. The fact they had one had puzzled him. He'd grown up sharing a one-room lean-to with his old mum, and nothing says character-building like a whole family sharing a bed. But Sybil had been firm. She had been raised in the nursery and she was damn sure her child would be as well.

It had been brought up as Vimes was swept along in a tide of pregnancy terror, and he had never bothered to argue or ask why a person big enough to be carried around in a basket needed a room the size of his old house.

The room was large and quiet, with a low fire in the grate. No doubt some servant was checking on the heir apparent once in a while. An heir. He never had considered having one of them. Son sounded better.

A gurgle from the cradle made his steps falter.

He had seen the baby and had the blanket-wrapped bundle propped in his arms for a little while earlier, but he hadn't been able to see straight or think or even look at the boy who was his son. He was a father now, and he had a new duty to protect a person he had helped to make.

He approached the cradle and looked down.

The baby, little Sam, was awake. He was wrapped snugly in blankets and seemed happy enough. Gingerly, as if the boy might explode, Vimes leaned down and picked the little bundle up. Unfocussed eyes stared at him and Vimes stared back.

The anger was gone, as if it had never even been there. The tiredness too. 

The baby blinked slowly and Vimes moved the boy into the corner of his arm. He went to the chair beside the fireplace and sat down, then unwrapped the cocoon that was his son, releasing tiny arms, which flailed at the air. 

"Hello, Sam," he said. 

A small hand grabbed at his.

Vimes smiled.

 


End file.
